


Ten Wings of a Blistered Drummer

by Helena_Hathaway



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartenders, Drummer!Patrick, Drums, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fear of Abandonment, Fear of Being Left Behind, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Moderate Depression, Peterick, Poet!Pete, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helena_Hathaway/pseuds/Helena_Hathaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s the drummer that Pete’s always admired from afar. The cheeky man with the heart of gold, and the talent paralleled by none. He’s Patrick, the guy hiding behind his drums, and robbing the world from a talent unhindered by any roadblock. Pete never wanted to fall in love with him, because he never really wanted to meet him, but irony is cruel. It’s too late to save Pete’s heart lost in the music, or Patrick’s heart that’s lost in the words. Patrick’s a rising star though, and Pete’s afraid of being left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Wings of a Blistered Drummer

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so I'm a Frerard writer and I have never ventured into writing a real Peterick, but here it goes. There's only going to be ten chapters, each one is going to be it's own self-contained short story, but they're all in order and will come together to make one complete story by the end. Each chapter is a character trait or a "wing" of Patrick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete's admired Patrick for a long time, and he finally meets him.

He’s just this drummer. He’s just this drummer in a little band that couldn’t make it. I’m just a wannabe poet. We’re just these two people who’ve never done anything. These two people with not enough money, going on our own paths doing very little. My path has never even really crossed his. He’s a drummer in a band. Who am I to him? I’m the guy who stands at the back of the club, and gives people tequila shots.

To me, he’s a rock star. The way he owns a stage, and he’s not even at the microphone. To him, I am no one. I am nothing. I’m not even on his radar, and that’s okay, I guess. 

He’s a rock star to me, and I am no one, so I expect nothing from him. I don’t expect a glance from him, I just expect to see him every other Friday. I expect to see him cower through the door, and pull his hat further down to hide his face. 

I wish he didn’t do that though. I am no one to judge, but I don’t like to see a person hide from who they are. Sometimes I think that’s why he sits back there on his riser. He doesn’t want that spotlight, he just wants the thrill of the song. He wants the adrenaline.

He owns that stage every night I’ve seen him though. Something about him just shines out. That stage presence, that smile, the way his eyebrows get all screwed up when he’s concentrating. It’s dreamlike. 

He’s still a rock star to me. He is a rock star, and rock stars are only ever supposed to be adored from afar. I know it’s stupid. He is a person just like everyone in front of that flimsy stage, but he’s so much more. I can’t explain it. 

I haven’t spoken to him once. I don’t know whose shyer, me or him. The funny thing is that I’m not shy, it’s just his presence. I feel like it would be an insult to talk to him, because he is such an insight into starlight. A rock star, but mostly just a star.

Meeting him is never something I’ve ever been particularly keen about. It’s not that I don’t want to know him, I just don’t want him to have to know me. I’m not really worth his time. What’s a star want to do with the guy who has to clean the stage when he leaves?

I don’t want to meet him, because I like him the way he is. I like liking him from afar. I like thinking of the day, the day that will surely come, where he is famous. I know it’ll happen, because no man with that talent and that passion for what they do can stay behind those drums forever.

He may be in a band that’s never going to make it, but just give it time. Someday you’ll be seeing his name on posters. Someday you’ll be looking at his face gleaming that bright smile on The Tonight Show. He’s got it coming to him, I’d bet my life on it. He may not know it yet, but I do. I don’t think, I know.

For now, I just want to watch him until that day, because it’s inching ever nearer. I’ll wait for it, and then I’ll get to see him grow in popularity. I guess I imagine that feeling as being like a proud father. I am proud of him. I don’t know him, but I’m proud of him.

As I said, I never really want to know him, that’s not what my attraction to him is. In a way, it’s like he’s an idol, and they say you never want to meet your idols. I don’t want to meet him, and my adamancy in that will not change. I think he looks like a sweet guy, maybe a bit bashful, but there’s no shame in that.

As I watch him tonight, I think only of the way he needs to be holding that microphone. The guitarist is mediocre at best, the singer is the kind of guy who would lose on the third round of American Idol, and the bassist is too small for his instrument. They aren’t well put together, but the idiosyncrasy is a part of the charm. They’ll never get signed, but they’ll hold your attention for a night.

I’ll never stop getting annoyed with the crowds that turn up for them though. They don’t care about the music, they just care about getting hammered. I’m ashamed to say that I’m the one providing the liquor for them to ignore the live talent. I wouldn’t if I had the choice, but it’s my job. These club-goers are very loose, and uncaring. Half the girls pay little to no attention to what they’re doing, which gives me a constant worry to their safety. I know that Friday night is supposed to be about a good time, but there’s a difference between a good time and putting yourself in danger.

Sometimes I forget to watch myself though, because I’m caught in his drumming. I’m caught in his determination. I’m caught in the way he refuses not to be heard. It shows that he has some sort of cocky side of him, and I admire that, even when I shouldn’t. If the club gets too loud, his drumming gets a little louder too. He wants you to know he’s there, even if you hate him for it. It’s a gaudy action from an unassuming person, but he’s not in the wrong. Respect the band, and they’ll respect you.

No one ever respects the band or the bartender. No one knows about the unsung heroes behind the counter that have to throw away the spiked drinks, because you’re inattentive ass couldn’t take the time to keep an eye on it. So reckless, and yet so innocent.

I’m not a fan of this job, I don’t understand why it’s such a demanding career. I don’t drink myself, so seeing people consume pint after pint is like seeing animals in the wild. Except these animals are so much worse than the animal kingdom. Those have practice, they have order. Humans are so sporadic, and too trusting. We all know the world is dog eat dog, but never so much as when you’re inebriated.

He’s not here for the free booze though. His bandmates are, but not him. It’s about the thrill. Bands get a few rounds on the house if they bring in a crowd, and their band is one of the only ones that does. Mostly because they’re booked on Friday’s, but I think also it’s because they’ve got a hangdog charisma. I know why _I_ always make sure I schedule myself to work when they play, but that’s just me.

My least favorite part is the finale song. It’s not like I’m the kind of person who gets post-concert depression, I just hate knowing that he won’t get to play for another two weeks. I know he loves it, anyone with functioning eyes can see that.

The lull of the club when a band leaves stage is incomparable. There’s always that five minutes where there’s no music on the PA system, so the whole club is just sent into this hushed silence. They’ll give that courteous round of applause, the ones who are conscious enough to do so, and then they’ll all try to fill the quiet with conversation.

You hear little snippets of conversations. That person’s boss is a dick, this one’s boss is a dick as well. Bosses being dicks is a very common topic of small talk, and I hear it a lot. No one ever says that one thing that would be music to my ears. Music better than his band, I’m sorry to say. No one ever says what I want to hear though. No one ever says, “Wasn’t that just a really great drummer?”

I look around the room, and sigh. I watch the band start to disassemble their equipment, and I exhale loudly. I’m a wistful person by nature, but I hate endings. I’m rather nostalgic. Every part of me wants to replay this night’s show like an old movie at a drive-in cinema. I always want that. I want to show him how good he was. He’s so underappreciated. I kind of want to tell him that he’s got at least one fan who’s rooting him on.

“Pete, you can go home early if you want,” My manager says to me, “you’ve been here nearly all day.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say. I don’t like leaving right after their shows, it makes me feel no better than a groupie.

“Alright, well then go home because you’ve worked every day this week.”

“Is that an order? You know I don’t have a real life, right? If it’s an order though, I’ll go.”

“Do you want me to make it an order,” he asks. There’s a rumor that he used to be a drill sergeant. I don’t believe it though, my boss is too young. He’s also a lot more timid off the clock than he looks when he’s on it.

“No, I’ll head out,” I reply, throwing a towel down on the counter. I watch a girl on the other side of the counter cautiously, waiting for her to either burp or vomit. If it’s the latter, I’m glad that I was just given permission to leave.

A moment passes where I see the worlds of everyone around the barf girl slow down, but the situation resolves itself when she makes a beeline for the bathroom. The boy’s aren’t allowed to even clean the girls restroom so I won’t have to deal with that either. That rule was instigated after an incident last year that resulted in two people being fired, and those two people also ending up being kicked to pulps outside the bar. I had nothing to do with either of the incidents, but I don’t miss those guys.

I head to the back room of the bar, which is barely a kitchen so I don’t know why everyone insists on calling it so. To be honest, four years here and I still haven’t gotten a hang of the punch card time clock. Usually it’s just me hitting it, and whoever is in the kitchen taking care of it for me. The guy in the kitchen today just so happens to be a friend of mine, Andy. The guy has to wear a hairnet over his beard, and it’s so hard not to make fun of. He looks like an idiot, but he’s too stubborn to shave.

“You’ve got to learn someday,” Andy says, doing the task for me.

“Someday is not today,” I reply.

“Here you go,” he says when he finishes up. I give him a one handed salute, and then grab my jacket from the coat rack, which is precariously placed right next to the stove. There was an incident once with a sleeve catching fire, and someone had attempted to put it out with cooking oil. It didn’t go well. Luckily the fire didn’t burn the club down. It did permanently piss off the club owner, but it’s no skin off my nose if it happens again. If this place burned down it would give me a chance to take the risks I really need in my life.

I wave to Andy, who frowns because I get to leave and he doesn’t. I throw on my jacket, pulling the sleeves down and the collar up, so that I go unnoticed as usual. I hate the walk from behind the counter to the door, because it reeks of beer, and the peculiar scent of weed that lingers around the stools in the corner for no apparent reason. I’m not an idiot, I know people hit up behind the club, but for some reason the smell just stays in one corner of the room. I think it’s something to do with the vents.

I’m not really looking where I’m going, I just walk out of the club, and take in my first breath of real air. The oxygen in that place is so stale and canned, I’ve never liked it. I get used to it once I’ve been in there for a little while, but it’s when I exit that I remember what the real air feels like. It hits your lungs differently. It feels like your sinuses are literally standing up, and patting you on the back in appreciation.

I look down, because it’s the time of year where you have to walk where you step or you end up breaking your tailbone. The air also bites at my ears the minute I escape the expanse of the bottled heat in the club, but I’d take winter air over the tangible aura of alcoholism.

Everyone in the world likes the sound of snow crunching beneath their feet. There’s no other sound like it. It’s literally the perfect combination of noises coming together to make you love the water soaking into your shoes. Your feet don’t appreciate it a minute later when you have to drive with wet socks, but those few moments where the soft squelching sound of compact snow beneath you is worth the gloom later.

I walk around the bar, because employees aren’t allowed to park out in front. I’ve always hated that, but it makes sense. More parking for people who are going to pay for your rent. That doesn’t mean I like to walk around the trickily large building. It’s a lot bigger than it looks, and I’ve always hated that. 

The night is fairly quiet. There’s the sound of cars in the distance in the eternal Chicago gridlock, but aside from that, the embrace of night has settled on the city. Luckily, I don’t live far away, and I never go anywhere that isn’t work, my home, or the grocery store, so I’m never really in the traffic jam.

I turn the corner of the building, which was precariously made of bricks and mortar a century ago, and really shouldn’t still be standing. It’s a nice building to look at, I’ll give it that, but it’s not a nice one to work in. I live in constant fear that it will collapse and I will be lost among all the other nobodies that no one’s going to claim. That’s a petty fear that everyone has, but I have no real attachments to the world, so no one really is going to care if little old me were to die.

There’s the sound of someone else walking around, and I look in the distance to see someone, a person very short in stature, moving around in front of me. They didn’t think to put a jacket on which wasn’t a smart thing to do. He’s very pale as well. So pale that he’d probably get lost in the snow if you looked away.

I guess it’s the difference in lighting that slows the synapse in my brain. The club has a yellow glow to it, so that everyone looks like they spent a few hours tanning, or at least look like an extra from a Simpson’s episode. 

The night has a more realistic color tone to it, because the only thing that illuminates anything is the waxing moon which is nearly on its way to becoming full. Snow is magical in a lot of ways. For one thing, it glows in the dark, because the light from the moon reflects off the freshly fallen snow like a pool of water, only it makes everything so much brighter. It’s a beautiful sight to me.

Another thing about snow, even more magical than the former, is that it makes everyone a model. There’s no way to look unattractive with the pink blush high in your cheeks, or the flakes of snow littering your hair and giving you an angelic tone. The way the snow seems to slow down as it falls around a person’s body is one of the best ways to be caught out in the world. Everyone is a model in this light, in this atmosphere, and that’s part of the reason why I don’t notice who it is for a moment.

It’s him. His bleach blonde hair is a stark contrast to the spotless snow around him. I watch him for a moment, as he tries, and fails, to load a drum kit into the back of a Camry, no younger than fifteen years old. The car isn’t even kind of big enough. It’s like trying to watch a little kid in a doctor’s office, trying to fit the square shape into the circle one on those toys that are a staple to waiting rooms.

I watch him for a moment until I figure out his way of logic. Technically, the way he’s cramming things in there so skillfully should work, but he doesn’t have the upper body strength to make it work the way he wants it to.

I curse myself into oblivion for doing what I do, but my natural instinct is to ask him if he needs help. I’m a gentleman, what can I say.

“Do you need a hand with that?” I ask, walking over to him cautiously. I have to move slowly because the weather is in that perfect condition to have formed ice, and then hidden it under the snow. It’s just a light dashing of snow, but it’ll cover up an icy deathtrap if you’re not too careful.

“A little, yeah,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak while I was in the vicinity to actually hear him. I’ve seen his mouth move, and presumed that words followed, but never have I had the pleasure of hearing him myself. It’s only more proof for me that he’s going to be a big deal sometime soon. He’s got a voice that’s silvery, and something about it intrigues me.

“Here,” I say, and I help him cram a floor tom into the space between the back of the passenger’s seat and the floor. He’s got most of it already crammed into the nooks and crannies of his car, but there’s still a few cymbals to attend to which are sitting precariously on the sidewalk.

“Oh thanks,” he says after we cram it into a space that really doesn’t look like it should’ve been big enough. He needs to pull the passenger’s seat up a little bit, until I notice that he has a bass drum sitting in the shotgun. I find it kind of whimsical that it’s been buckled in. I get that it’s so it won’t fall out of the seat, but it looks like a really obsessive guy tried to make sure the inanimate object wouldn’t get hurt in the case of an accident.

“This really isn’t the most efficient way to transport a drum set,” I note.

“Tell me about it,” he says, and then looks at me for the first time, and I _feel_ him evaluating at me. It feels weird. I’ve spent all of this time ogling him, and I never thought it would be a reciprocated gaze, even in the smallest of incidents. This is more than I’d ever planned, or wanted to talk to him. I look at back at him, and feel my heart rate start to speed up, because it feels wrong. There’s no way for this part of my life to intertwine with the part of my life that is just an actual human being. I kind of think of these two parts of me as two different people. The person who thinks he’s going to make it big, and the part of me who is only afraid to talk to this one person in the world.

“Hey, you’re that bartender guy,” he says.

“Uh...” is my response, and I step back from him the smallest amount. We were sharing the same air space, because it required getting really close into his personal space to fit the tom into the car. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, he just gives me a onceover and then the smallest hint of a smile crosses his face. I don’t really understand it, but I don’t comment on it, because I don’t want him to know that I know the small subtleties about him that well. 

He has a glistening of sweat on his brow still from the concert, and just like the snow, it glows under the moonlight. Seeing him up close gives me a really vivid look of his face. He’s got such a soft face, kind of like his skin is untouched by any hand or blemish. It’s almost scary how smooth and clean shaven his face is. It’s not wrong to say he’s flawless, because he _is_ flawless. He’s also stunning, but flawless isn’t an inappropriate word for him either. He just looks so undamaged and immaculate.

“You are though,” he says, and then he pushes back the side of my jacket. He raises an eyebrow and the side of his mouth turns the slightest bit more upward. I look down, and see the club logo on my shirt, like the bat symbol. It’s a scrolling red emblem across my chest that serves the purpose of assigning me to this club. It’s probably the only thing anyone would ever be able to say about me if they had to describe me to a police sketch artist. My face is nothing to write home about, and uninteresting at best. The one signature look I have is the shirt I have to wear for work.

“I mean, I am a bartender here, but I don’t know that I’m ‘that bartender guy.’”

“Sorry,” he says, “I don’t know your name, so I tried my best.”

“That’s okay,” I say.

“Well what is it?” He asks.

“What is what?”

“Your name,” he says, and I feel like hitting myself in the face, because I’m awfully slow right now. This is a moment that I never imagined would ever happen. It’s not one I particularly want to be happening either. I don’t know that I’m actually afraid of him, but I’m wary of him. I’ve never had the desire to introduce myself, so now I have to decide how I want to play my cards.

I don’t want him to think poorly of me, so I don’t want to lie. I guess I have to just go with it, and see where this sad excuse of a conversation leads. Hopefully just a quick thanks and then a parting that involves me never talking to him again.

“I’m Pete,” I say. Those words made it out okay, I didn’t stumble on my own name, which has been known to happen when I talk to strangers.

“Hi Pete,” He says, and I can feel the drumroll beginning. This is the moment. This is the moment where I find out his name. I feel the whole world stop for a long moment, and I can hear myself exhaling long and slow, like I’m in an empty warehouse with just my breathing. It’s an indescribable feeling. I’ve avoided learning his name for so long, because that ruins part of the mystery to him, but I’m going to have to know now. I’m going to learn his name, and I’ll have a few more things to talk to my therapist about after tonight. I’ll be able to put a name to the face. It’s a terrifying moment of fear and excitement. So much time has built up to me learning his name and here it is.

“I’m Patrick.”

I feel myself smile despite myself, because part of me feels really fulfilled knowing. It’s also a bit of a relief to hear that he’s not just another John or something tedious. He’s got something not as common as your average... well average Joe. Part of me feels this gratifying feeling like it suits him. It does. He looks like a Patrick. He looks like a rock star too, but he looks like a Patrick.

“I’m assuming you’re a drummer,” I say looking at the drums, “I mean, obviously you are.”

Patrick, oh god, it’s so weird knowing his name. Patrick laughs airily at my remark, which is probably just his way of saying I’m an idiot without being rude about it. I don’t blame him for thinking that of me. He’s not wrong.

“I am a drummer, how’d you guess?” he asks.

“I’m clairvoyant,” I reply.

“Oh right,” he nods, “I should’ve known. The fortunetelling bartender. We’ve all read that book.”

“It’s a literary classic,” I reply nodding. This is more talking than I’d planned on. I don’t know how I feel about it. I like the sound of his voice though, I want to keep him talking endlessly, but I’m also nervous that he’ll get bored of me within minutes. I can’t keep a guy like him entertained for very long. After all he’s a rock star, and I’m just a guy going nowhere.

“I, uh,” Patrick starts, and I wonder why he’s stumbling on his own words. It doesn’t make all that much sense to me, because he’s got such a poetic vibe to him. A better poet than the kind I want to be, and by the looks of him, he doesn’t even have to try.

He also has no jacket on to protect him from the cold, so he’s probably eager to get back inside. He can’t exactly carry out a conversation for too long when he’s being hit with blistering air that’s making even me shiver. My coat’s not the one that got caught on fire way back when, but it’s certainly not insulated enough to allow for prolonged minutes out in the cold. If _I’m_ shivering, Patrick must be contracting frostbite. 

“I should go, shouldn’t I?” I say, because it was inevitable that I’d bore him if I ever spoke to him. It’s not unexpected, but it’s disheartening to know that the day I finally meet him, is also the time where I have to show him how truly monotonous I am.

“Um, you can go, I guess. Thanks again for helping me with the drums,” He says, “It was a big help even if you don’t think it was.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, walking backward away from him for a few steps until I’m an acceptable distance to turn away. I look down to make sure my feet are firm on the ground, but I also feel it as an instinct of ignominy, because I really didn’t do very well. I would give myself a failing grade were this a test. A test to see how I act around someone I like. Patrick was perfectly nice and warm, but all I am is the guy who doesn’t know how to talk to him.

“Well you can go, that is, unless you didn’t want to, like, get a drink or something,” Patrick call after me, which was unanticipated to say the least. My soothsaying must not be up to par if I couldn’t even guess that he’d ask to get a drink with me. 

I suppose though that it’s just the coldness getting to Patrick. He’s gone a little loopy from the lack of heat, and he didn’t even look at me. Patrick has no idea that he just asked the least interesting human on the planet for a drink, but he certainly will if he sees me under a different light. 

The glow of the snow might make people look nice, but there’s a difference between people and nobodies. The same effect is not seen on nobodies, because the glimmer of the moonlight forgot to take its toll on those who were rushed off as side characters.

I always think about humans like they were modeled in a factory. Some of us are rushed off of the assembly line too quick, and others have been slaved over for hours. Patrick looks like someone’s prized project that they spent a painstakingly long time constructing. He’s the first prize at a middle school science fair, or the blue ribbon quilt at the state fair. He’s the Sim that you spent three hours making, and cared way too much about. He’s the character that you create on Oregon Trail and gruelingly hoped would survive.

I stop myself, and turn around sure that I must have misheard him. I look for the words I need, the words to tell him that he’s made a really big mistake on the merit of my personality, but there’s no way to say that without sounding like I’ve got an inferiority complex. It’s not technically a complex if it’s completely true.

“I don’t drink,” I say, hoping that’s a good enough answer.

“Neither do I,” Patrick says, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t drink any liquids at all.”

“Well, I mean, I just got off work,” I say. I’m a master at deflecting, but my skills aren’t very good when the questions are so direct. I can’t distract him with anything, because he’s new to me, and I to him. Strangers are always so much more direct and to the point. I usually like that, but in this situation it’s greatly unwanted.

“You don’t have to say, yes. I’m not pressuring you or anything,” Patrick says, sounding disappointed. I hate disappointing people though, that’s one of my biggest social issues. I always feel such an obligation to make sure that I haven’t bummed anyone out, because I care too much about what other people think.

“Am I being rude? I don’t mean to be rude,” I say.

“No, I’m just being too presumptuous. Just wanted to say thanks,” Patrick shrugs, and I feel a weird sensation wash over me. I’m so hopelessly enticed by him, it’s something I don’t really know how to describe. He doesn’t really compute in the way a normal person should; he’s just sort of this shadow of a human whose outline is so much more defined than any others. He’s a shadow because he’s selectively enigmatic to me, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t more prominent than any other person. He’s far more noticeable actually.

“Uh, I guess,” I say, before I even think about the words. My tongue is disobeying me, and if I could reprimand it, I would. I haven’t got that power though, so I just allow the rest of my body to accept that what’s said has been said. I can’t change the past, not even my own. I don’t want to take the words back though, because they’re hanging in the air like an invitation, and to be honest, I want to RSVP.

“You sure?” Patrick asks, “You look really scared, and I didn’t mean to be totally brash, I just usually like to give back what I get, do you know what I mean?”

“I, uh, it was just a drum,” I reply, because he’s making a bigger deal of my help than he really needs to. It was a kind gesture, but really, it wasn’t much. I didn’t stitch up a massive gash in his arm or anything.

“Paying it forward,” he shrugs.

“That would imply that you helped someone else load a drum into their car,” I reply. I’m probably sounding like an avid and annoying debater, which I don’t mean to do.

Patrick grins, “You’re kind of difficult to work with.” 

I shrug, because I’m known to be a tad bit churlish, but it’s worse because this is someone who I’ve admired from afar for so long. He belongs that way, I don’t want to be too close to him, because then he’s not my mysterious future rock star.

“I don’t... I’m really not very exciting. I would be a burden to talk to, so you really might want to reconsider,” I say.

“I’m not that interesting either,” Patrick says.

“I’m fairly sure that you’re wrong about that,” I say.

“Well then we’re even there. I’m highly skeptical of the fact that you’re not remarkable,” Patrick says. I think he just complimented me, but I’m really not used to getting those, so I could be wrong. It might have been sarcastic and if was it’d probably have blown right over my head. I really hope he wasn’t being sarcastic, not that I wouldn’t deserve it, but because that would make him somewhat of a dick. I would really hate for him to be a dick. That’s why I’ve spent so much time trying to avoid meeting him. I don’t want to find out that he’s been an ass all this time.

“I guess the only way to figure out who is right, if either of us, is for me to buy you a drink,” Patrick says.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” I ask, and Patrick smiles with a nod. “Alright, but only because I’m worried you’re going to get hypothermia if you stay out here for too long.”

Patrick grins even wider, and he grabs the cymbals, throws them precariously into the empty space of the car, and then turns to me. He’s eager for some reason, and I’m trying to reason as to why that is. Maybe he’s blind, or a despairingly poor judge of character.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” he says. I sigh, and think of my escape routes. I could just run away, flailing like a loon, but I decide against that. He’s sweet though, or he seems to be at least, so maybe I should just suck in my nerves and go for it.

I do what any logical person would do when bade to have a drink with a cute guy. I follow behind him.

Patrick gets to use the stage entrance, which is taped off for the employees as well as customers, because the employees apparently don’t deserve the convenience of having to walk around a giant building to get to their cars. We just have to work eight or more hours a day and clean up after people spilling anything from food and wine, to the insides of their stomachs. Wine is really sticky, if you’re going to drink wine, keep it in the glass. If you’re going to drink at all, keep it in your system. You may not want to puke, but imagine being the guy who has to clean up your puke.

“I’ve seen you here I think every time we’ve played,” Patrick says. He takes me through the dark entrance that I’ve only ever used a few times. There’s a few guitar cases pressed against the wall, and it’s the kind of room that you have to worry about stepping on rats. I doubt there’s any rodents in here though, we’ve passed our health inspections every year I’ve worked here.

“I have no social life,” I say, “I’m always here.”

We walk back into the club again, and I don’t know how I feel about being back in here after I finally got away. Part of me hadn’t wanted to leave but that was when I was used to breathing in the enclosed air. Now that I’ve been outside I remember what it’s like to be able to breathe freely. It’s not that I necessarily dislike it in here, it’s just that I don’t exceedingly like it either.

“You have about as much of a social life as me,” Patrick says. “I’m workaholic.”

“But you’re-”

“Well this isn’t my real job,” he says, as we walk across the floor. Patrick skirts around the edge of the room to avoid being near any of the people drunk off their tits.

“Oh,” I say. I should’ve realized that. He probably has a real job in a cubicle or something, and that inexplicably saddens me a bit. He’s a rock star, he shouldn’t work in an office, he’s too good for that. There’s something so disheartening about that, and I don’t know what. It doesn’t change my opinion Patrick, but it does change my opinion of the people around me. They have no idea that they’re in the same vicinity of a man who’s going to be on their TV screens in just a few years. He’ll be singing at them from the radio. They won’t be able to escape him, but they don’t know that yet.

“Drink?” Patrick asks me when we get to the counter at the back of the club.

“Pete, I just let you off for the night,” My manager says.

“As an employee,” I point out, “I’m not here as an employee.”

“You’ve got a friend,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me. I send him back a death glare, because the last thing I need right now is to be teased by my boss. I’m trying not to implode from the fact that I’ve just met my own equivalent to a celebrity. I met him. His name is Patrick, and I met him.

“Drum guy?” My manager asks, “Can I get you something?”

“Uh, just a Coke,” Patrick says. I watch him a little too meticulously, but it still hasn’t sunk in that I’m talking to him. It doesn’t feel right.

Patrick tries to hand over a few bills, but my manager shakes his head and says, “No that’s on us.”

“Oh god, please no handouts,” Patrick says.

“But it’s free?”

“I don’t play music for free drinks,” Patrick says, and he stuffs the money into my managers’ hand. “Pete, what can I get you?”

“I mean, I work here, I get a discount,” I say.

“But it’s not gentlemanly of me,” Patrick says.

“You know it’s only a few bucks, you don’t have to turn down the free stuff,” I say.

“It’s about principle,” Patrick replies, “besides, like you said, it’s only a few bucks. No big deal. I also don’t like to think that I’m cutting into your paychecks.”

“Well that’s really, like, nice,” I say, because I can’t think of a better term than that.

Patrick snorts because it was a fairly dumb thing to say, but I can’t help it. I’m tongue tied which never happens to me. People all have strange effects on others, and Patrick makes me stumble on my words.

I get myself a virgin Piña Colada, which looking back on it, is a fairly fruity drink in both senses of the word, but I like sweet things.

I allow Patrick to lead me to the darkest corner of the club, which is on the other end of the room to the part that smells like grass.

“I don’t, uh, I don’t know how to do small talk,” I say, which is half of the truth. I know how to talk to people usually, but I’m not good at talking about things like the weather.

“That’s alright,” Patrick says, “I can talk up a storm.”

I nod nervously looking down anywhere but at him. This is one of those annoying clubs that rarely ever has the proper amount of seating. Eighty percent of the time, some dipshits stole all the stools and have them around one table. That table today is actually a bunch of girls gathered around the guitarist of Patrick’s band. I assume the rest of the band are there too, but there’s a crowd around them so I can’t quite see. They’re seated at the table nearest to the bar, which means they can yell at the bartenders like we’re a bunch of wenches at their beck and call. Patrick doesn’t seem to fit in with guys like that in the slightest.

This means that our table has no seating, but it’s one of those really tall tables, so standing up puts it at about chest height for us both. Patrick is short, but I’m not much taller. I’m not exactly used to people being shorter than me, but it’s not unheard of. I think Patrick would dangle off the edge of the stool like a little kid. Don’t get me wrong, I would too, but it would be cute for him.

“How long have you worked here, Pete?” Patrick asks.

“What? A few years. Five years this March,” I reply, “how long have you played drums?”

“Feels like forever,” Patrick replies, “It’s the only fun thing I get to do. Friday’s are the only nights I ever really give myself off, because I don’t like to sit around doing nothing.”

“Neither do I,” I say, “What do you do? In real life, I mean.”

“I work in a record store,” Patrick says.

“What? Really?” I ask. If you’re going to work anywhere, that sounds pretty fantastic. I’d give up this job any day for something like that.

Patrick smiles like he knew that would impress me, and I look down because feeling him looking at me is a lot less intensive than watching him look at me. I don’t know where I had expected him to work, though I’d have been pretty surprised to hear if it was something like McDonalds.

“Yeah, I like it, though it doesn’t have the same allure as actually playing music,” Patrick says.

“You always look really happy up there,” I note, and then try to figure out if that’s something a normal person would have noticed. I don’t know if it is.

“So what’s your opinion of the band?” Patrick asks, eyeing his bandmates with something like distaste from across the room. They’re at the bar, taking advantage of my managers hospitality. It’s rather unsightly to see them so transparently abusing their discount. _I_ don’t even abuse my discount.

“Uh,” I say, because I’d really rather stick to the motto of saying nothing when you don’t have anything nice to say.

“I understand completely,” Patrick says, “I’m not a big fan either.”

“Begs the question,” I reply shortly.

“Well, I just like to play. I don’t care for the glamour or the recognition so much, it’s just the exhilaration of the beat. My own brand of ecstasy, I guess.”

“Don’t you think you’re being held back?” I ask, and realize that I’ve got far too much insight into his playing ability than a guy who just listens to them occasionally would.

“It’s a hobby,” Patrick says, “I can’t really live off this, so it’s something to get the tension to go away. It’s not really a career.”

“But it could be,” I say.

Patrick chuckles, “wishful thinking. You’ve got to have the talent to make it, and if you don’t have that juice, than no one’s going to listen. I don’t have that much flair to be anything but the drummer in a crappy local band.”

“Well you don’t have to hide behind a drum,” I say.

“What do you mean by that?”

I roll my eyes and grab his hand as if to show it to him, “you’ve got the blisters of a guitar player.”

Patrick shrugs, “maybe I just live in a chainmail factory.”

“Do you? I hadn’t realized that it was the fourteenth century. Are you good with a foil as well?” I ask.

“I don’t even know what that means,” he says.

“Not into fencing,” I state. I look down and my heart stops for a long time, because I’m still holding his hand. My stomach feels a lot like lead, and for a long time I just kind of look at my hand and his. It’s not like I’m really holding it per se, but my hand is gripped around the back of his.

“Uh, sorry,” I say, letting go of his hand. He looks down, and there’s an undetectable look on his face, that I want to call disappointment, but I know that can’t be it. It looks of dissatisfaction, but I’m not pompous enough to believe that anyone would ever want to hold my hand. I’m a nobody who looks sickly in the snow, no one would want to hold my hand.

“You have a lot of faith in a guy you’ve never really met,” Patrick says. That’s a statement that I don’t know how to refute. On the one hand, he’s right, I’ve never met him, but I feel like I know him. Not like I know his past, history, and details of his life. It’s more in a spiritual way that I know him. I know the kind of person he is.

“I took notice of you, because you were the only guy up on that stage with a good reason to be there,” I say, “and that supplies a lot of faith I guess, but it was well earned.”

“The other guys have a reason to be up there,” Patrick shrugs, “it’s called free beer.”

I nod, and look over to the band again, “I’m not allowed to serve the bands drinks.”

“Why not?”

“Well I spit in this guy’s drink once when he grabbed a girls ass. I was lucky not to have been fired, but now I’m not allowed to serve the band members. They’re always rowdier than everyone else,” and then, as if to prove my point the guys at the bar start screaming in unison. I can’t make out any of their words, but it’s annoying as hell.

“Noble cause,” Patrick shrugs, “but maybe not the best course of action.”

“I could have punched him in the face. I think I took the high road,” I shrug. I really hate how I don’t know what’s happening here. Twenty minutes ago I was on my way to go home, and watch reruns of House Hunters, but right now I’m doing the exact opposite. I’m sitting down with this guy I’ve practically been stalking, and he’s amazing. He’s lovely, sincere, and I don’t know what the feeling in my gut is.

I’ve never had a real honest to god crush on a celebrity before, and Patrick is a rock star to me. He’s this celebrity in my eyes, but here I am at a bar, having a normal conversation with him. He’s making me feel kind of weird inside.

There’s two different types of happy. There’s the happy in your smile, and the happy in your eyes. It can also be described as the external happiness and the internal. External happiness is hearing a funny joke, or watching a comedic movie. External happiness is the smile on your face because you found something funny. 

Internal happiness though, that’s a completely different thing all together. That’s when you’re sitting on your couch while it’s raining buckets outside, and you’re watching childhood shows while drinking hot chocolate. That’s internal happiness. Internal happiness is when you talk about old memories with your old friends. It’s when you’re sitting at the DMV and some lady brought her toddler, and he’s walking around looking at everyone like they’re the most dazzling entity he’s ever seen. Internal happiness isn’t exactly hard to come by, but it’s nulled by routine.

Get up, take a shower, get dressed, go to work, make yourself Ramen, watch NBC shows that you couldn’t care less about, go to bed, repeat. There’s no room for internal happiness in that cycle. Your coworker might make a funny joke, or you might watch a funny show, but it’s not real happiness. It’s external.

Right now, what I feel now, it’s not external. It’s real, and I can feel it prickling on my skin. I’m talking to Patrick, and I’m happy. The smile on my face isn’t the plastic kind, it’s the kind that reaches my eyes. It’s new to me, to be actually happy. My life is mundane. As mundane as a life can be, and I never expected to meet Patrick, but here we are, and he’s got me smiling.

“Can I confess something?” He asks, and I nod my affirmation, “Well, see, usually, I’m pretty shy, but something about you intrigues me, Pete.”

“In a good way?”

“Of course in a good way! You have a real tendency to cast yourself downward, Pete. It’s not warranted. It’s not okay to be negative about other people, so why is it okay to be negative of yourself?”

“Well, it’s all in the mind anyway,” I respond, “saying it out loud is the same thing as thinking it in your head. It doesn’t solidify that feeling any more or less.”

“You’re...” Patrick starts, “no never mind.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” Patrick assures, “it’s just that, well, I don’t know. We’ve only just met, but you seem really special.”

“You probably just think that because I complimented you.”

“I don’t need anyone to fuel my ego, Pete. I’m a Goldilocks at self-respect,” Patrick says, “I just think that you seem like the kind of person who needs flattery, and deserves it as well.”

“You know nothing about me,” I remind him.

“Well then tell me,” Patrick says.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you want to tell me,” Patrick replies.

“Well give me some specifics,” I ask.

“Favorite color?” Patrick suggests. “Last Name? Hobbies? Name of your best friend from middle school? What’s your relationship with your parents like? Biggest pet peeve? Favorite Beatle? Favorite thing to put on top of Pizza? Pepsi or Coke? Believe in aliens? I don’t care, I just kind of like this feeling right now, you know? This is comfortable, and I don’t know why.”

“I don’t remember any of those questions, but I’ll give it a shot,” I say, “I like pizza more than I like humans.”

“As do we all,” Patrick nods, looking completely serious.

“Uh... my favorite Beatle is George. I’m kind of impartial on the whole alien thing. I played soccer in school,” I say, “and I’ve totally blanked on the rest of the questions.”

Patrick shrugs, “that’s okay. We can do a back and forth, I’ll ask you something, you ask me.”

I’m tempted to ask why, but I’m afraid that asking why will make it seem like I don’t want to. I want to keep talking to Patrick for all of eternity, and I’m not in the mood to turn down his offer to spend more time with him.

“Uh, why do you wear so many hats?” I ask.

“You noticed that, huh?” Patrick asks. He’s not wearing a hat now, but I know him to almost religiously wear hats.

“Well I’ve worked here a while, and you’ve been playing here for a while too.”

“It’s my way of hiding when I’m on stage,” Patrick says.

“You get stage fright?”

“A little,” he says. That puts a damper on his future as a rock star, but I have confidence in him that he’ll still own that stage one day.

“My turn,” Patrick says, “Have you ever successfully built a gingerbread house?”

“Sadly know. All my attempts have caved in on the little gingerbread family. I have built my fair share of gingerbread wigwams though,” I say, “Have you ever built a snowman?”

“Why?” Patrick asks, before getting this devilish little glint in his eyes and he says, “Do you want to build a snowman?”

“Shit! Not only did I walk right into that one, I built the fucking sidewalk.”

Patrick laughs exuberantly, and it’s one of the most perfect things I’ve ever heard. I don’t know why, but his laugh is like a rain of glitter or something. It’s like glitter except for that annoying aftermath where you find glitter wedged in places for three years afterwards.

I don’t know that I did anything to deserve Patrick leaning into the space in front me, but it’s happening in a matter of seconds. I know what that means obviously, because it’s not an exactly subtle thing to do, but I don’t know how I’m meant to react. 

We just met. I mean physically just met, I’ve known of him for a long time, but I only just _met_ him. It’s a little abrupt for us to actually kiss, but I don’t know if I’m necessarily against it either. He’s leaning in for it though, and I have to make the decision.

I tense up in either case, and I know that I completely scare Patrick. He pulls away when he sees that my eyes don’t close and he gets a look of horror on his face. It’s almost like he thinks he did something wrong, when I don’t think he necessarily did.

“I’m sorry, Pete, oh god,” Patrick says fearfully, “You’re not even gay are you? Oh god, sorry.”

“What? No! That’s not it. It’s just that...” I start, but then try to figure out how to possibly phrase that I really don’t think he’ll like me. I try to figure out the words to tell him I’m afraid of him getting to know me, but eventually becoming bored.

“Never mind, it’s not important,” I reply, and grab him by the side of the neck, because there’s no way I don’t want to kiss him. It’s been ages since I last kissed someone, because I haven’t really been searching for someone to kiss. Patrick’s here though, and I don’t know how to describe how I feel about him.

True, I never wanted to meet him, but I have now, so I’ve got to rethink my strategy. I’ve got to take on a whole new tactical shift with this, and if kissing Patrick is a part of that shift, then so be it.

I’m really shy when it comes to Patrick, but there’s some things in life that are hard to deny ourselves. When a guy you like wants to kiss you, and you want to kiss him back, sometimes you’ve just got to live in the moment. Sometimes you’ve got to do the thing so that you can look back on it and say that you did it. I’m really not thinking about the future right now. This is about right here. This is about kissing him now, and dealing with the consequences later.

“Pete, you don’t...” Patrick says, but I’ve been keeping myself from dreaming about this for so long. I’ve been withholding the dreams of this for so long, and now I can’t help myself from being so fervent. I pushed these thoughts back for so long, because I didn’t want to be the guy who likes the rock star, not in that way, but I can’t help the feelings from arising now.

“D-do you not want me to?” I ask, pulling away far enough for my nose to be connected to his, but far enough away for our lips not to touch. I can feel him breathing lightly, like a feather on my face, and I’m trying to calm the way that his air is intoxicating me.

“No I do want you to,” Patrick says, and I smile again, because that’s the best thing in the world to hear. That’s better than literally anything, I swear it’s true.

Better than, “I just baked cookies, do you want some?”

Better than, “The big test was canceled today!”

Better than, “you’ve just won three million dollars.”

It’s better than all those things, because he doesn’t _have_ to say that. Patrick could have said anything else, anything else in the world, that would have gotten me to stop kissing him, but he didn’t ask me to stop. That’s the greatest feeling in the world, to know someone wants you in that way. I’ve never felt like I could be a person to induce that, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe he’s got the same wonderment over me as I do him.

Patrick has soft lips. He doesn’t have the sot lips that you talk about when you’re describing some guy generically, I mean that he really does have soft lips. They’re perfect. He’s got this notable edginess to his kiss, like he doesn’t know if he’s doing right. It’s sweet though. It’s refreshing to be here with someone I like who just might like me back. Certainly not to extent of how I like him, but any extent at all is more than I deserve.

I like the feeling of being enchanted by someone, and I definitely am enchanted by Patrick.

“Normally, I don’t,” I pause, because I have to find my bearings, “I don’t kiss people I just met, Patrick.”

“Normally,” Patrick says, “I don’t either.”

I bite my lip a little bit and pull myself away from Patrick to get a better look at him. He looks really serene, much more collected than me right now. My body is quaking like I’m producing my own personal earthquake.

“Pete, I’m not acting like myself, but at the same time, I’m acting more like myself than I usually do.”

“Uh?” I reply.

“I just mean to say that I don’t understand you.”

I look at him, and raise an eyebrow, because I don’t know how I’m meant to respond to a statement like that.

“Sorry?”

“If you’ll let me, Pete, I would very much like to try to understand.”

“But what if you never understand me?” I ask, because I’m not overly complex, but I’m a bit of a downer. Our personalities clash pretty violently, seeing as he’s that upbeat, caring guy, and I’m serially melancholic. How could someone as different to me as him ever understand who I am as a person?

“I don’t ever want to fully understand,” Patrick says, as if that’s obvious, “that would spoil the fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Peterick is new to me, so tell me what you think.


End file.
